


Bloody Destiny

by HighlyOveractiveImagination



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Ciri gets all the dads, First Kiss, Fix-It, Geralt is a good dad, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Whump, Getting Together, Guilt, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Jaskier is a good dad, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, M/M, Pining, Post Episode 1.06, and Ciri has all the brain cells
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-17
Updated: 2020-01-22
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:14:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22294633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HighlyOveractiveImagination/pseuds/HighlyOveractiveImagination
Summary: Geralt is injured while protecting Ciri and help comes in the form of one heartbroken bard. Jaskier still believes that the witcher hates him and Geralt, well, Geralt is too unconscious to argue. That leaves the hunted princess and the bard to heal new wounds, and perhaps some old ones as well.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 251
Kudos: 5235
Collections: Bruss, Geralt is Sorry





	1. Run Through

**Author's Note:**

> I'm mainly familiar with the Netflix TV show, I haven't yet read the books and I've only played a little of the games.

Geralt had told Cirilla to stay hidden, no matter what she heard, but he didn’t know that she could see as well as hear what was happening. There was a tiny crack in the trunk of the fallen tree whose hollow body she was curled in. Geralt had guided her roughly into it after waking her in the dead of night. He had heard what she hadn’t, his heightened senses picking up something that put a sharp gleam in his catlike eyes, she would have called it fear on any other person. On him, she knew it was anticipation.

She could see him silhouetted against their fire, his steel sword glinting as it met with enemy blades. The noise was horrible, the scraping and clashing of metal that only ever ceased when instead there was the wet squelching of flesh being sliced. It reminded her of the night she fled Cintra. She tried to put that out of her mind as she watched Geralt fight. She could only catch glimpses but he was as graceful as a dancer, weaving between attackers and striking them down.

Almost as soon as it had began, it was over. The little clearing where they had made camp fell quiet and Cirilla could see Geralt standing in front of the fire, blade lowered and shoulders rising with his breath.

“Come out, it’s safe,” he said, his voice low and rough.

Cirilla clambered out of the trunk, bits of moss and bark stuck to her clothes and hair. She stepped gingerly toward Geralt, carefully avoiding looking at the dead bodies littering their campsite. The witcher turned to her.

“We should leave, make camp elsewh—”

His voice cut out as a sword suddenly pierced his side. One of the bounty hunters had not been quite as dead as he’d appeared, and from the ground had rolled to stab Geralt. The blade jutted out just below his ribs, now slick with his blood.

Unable to stop herself, Ciri screamed. A desperate and horrified “no” tore from her throat and sent the bounty hunter flying across the clearing. He struck a tree with a sickening crack and fell to the ground, unmoving. Geralt was knocked prone and in a flash Ciri was at his side.

“Geralt! Geralt! Are you alright?” Her hands skittered around the wound helplessly, she didn’t know what to do. The sword was still lodged inside him.

“I’ll be alright. Get me a potion from my bag.”

“Right.” Ciri got to her feet and dashed over to Roach. The horse was breathing heavily, agitated from the conflict, but calmed when Ciri arrived at her side and placed a hand on her neck. The girl rooted through the bag, lifting various vials to the light, but one after the other proved empty to her growing dismay.

“Geralt,” she breathed, her heart hammering in her chest.

“A reddish-colored one.”

“Geralt they’re all empty.” Cirilla kept rooting through the bag, but the flasks clinked hollowly against each other, empty. She looked over her shoulder when there came no reply. Geralt was lying propped on one elbow with his other hand pressed over his wound. Blood coated his knuckles as he took a deep breath.

“Fuck,” he said.

“What do we do?”

Geralt looked up at the girl, his jaw set and his lips thinned.

“We get help.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And woop Geralt gets stabbed. Dontcha just hate it when that happens?


	2. Familiarity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ciri rushes to get help and Jaskier, despite everything that happened in the past, is the one to offer it.

Jaskier was having a shit night. The crowd at this particular tavern was morose, understandable given that not too far to the south of them was a legion of black-clad soldiers bent on killing them all, but morose crowds weren’t much for music. There was very little coin in his lute case so if he wanted to drink away his own moroseness he would have to settle for the frankly disgusting ale.

He felt the same weight of fear in his stomach at the other tavern-goers, and an additional weight of sorrow. He remembered playing for Calanthe years ago, at Pavetta’s betrothal, and the news of Cintra’s fall hit him like a kick to the chest.

It didn’t help that it brought up all kinds of memories of a certain witcher. A certain beautiful bastard of a witcher who had broken Jaskier’s heart and yet the damnable beating thing still had the gall to fear for Geralt’s safety. He had half a mind to go looking for the man, but then he had remembered the last thing the witcher had said to him.

One blessing. Geralt didn’t want him, would never want him, and who was Jaskier to deny Geralt his one blessing? Even if it caught in his throat worse than a Djinn’s curse and made him want to claw the longing for the other man out of his chest.

“Sing us the one about the witcher!” someone in the audience shouted. The suggestion sent a ripple of agreement through the tavern, as it always did, and Jaskier sighed. It happened nearly every night he played and it never failed to make him ache. He had denied the request before, when he knew that the adventurous ballad would turn sour and maudlin on his tongue, but tonight he needed the coin and felt strong enough to swallow the bitter combination of anger and sorrow.

He made it about as far as the first chorus, feeling the room grow a little more lively, to his satisfaction, when the door burst open.

“Help! Help!” a small figure in a blue cloak shouted into the room. Jaskier’s fingers ceased on his lute strings as everyone turned to look at the child. “Please! He’s hurt, we need help!”

Those closest to the girl turned their backs and lowered their gazes into their drinks. The rest turned and began to awkwardly mutter to each other.

“Didn’t you hear me? I said we need help!” the girl screamed desperately.

The innkeeper approached her gently and Jaskier could just make out his words. “We don’t want any trouble, take your friend elsewhere.” The child glared at him lividly.

“He’s hurt, he needs help now!”

“Shut it!” one drunken patron shouted at her.

“Back to the song!” another called.

“What is wrong with you!? He’s hurt, why won’t you—” The girl was seized by the innkeeper and another man and dragged toward the door. She kicked and screamed all the way, lobbing insults at the tavern-goers before she was tossed to the ground outside and the door slammed in her face.

Jaskier felt sick to his stomach as he heard her fists against the door. A few more audience members yelled for him to finish “Toss a Coin to Your Witcher” but he had already made up his mind.

He hopped off his stool and bent to pack his lute into its case. The action was met with a chorus of boos and a few thrown pieces of food. He dodged and swatted at the projectiles on his way to the door, but most of them hit him.

Once outside in the cold night air he looked around for the cloaked figure of the child. She wasn’t immediately visible.

“Little girl?” he called out, scanning the narrow street for her. “Little girl!” a little louder this time.

“What?” a voice next to him sounded and he nearly jumped out of his skin. She looked scared and angry and Jaskier hated to see that on a face so young. He brushed himself off, loose crumbs from thrown bread falling off his shoulders.

“You said someone needed help?” he offered, and her face softened almost immediately.

“Yes, please, come with me.” She grabbed his hand and pulled him quickly along. He kept pace as she ran to the edge of town. He was confused as to why she would have left her companion so far away and was just starting to worry that he was going to be robbed when he spotted the brown, white-striped snout of a very familiar horse.

His steps faltered as he drew closer, fear gripping him. He shook his head in denial but the horse walked to him and nudged his chest as if she was grateful to see him.

“Oh no,” he breathed even as he reached up unconsciously to pet her. There was a cloaked figure slouched on her back, twisted at an odd angle.

The little girl pulled back the hood to reveal the white hair and chiseled jaw of Geralt of fucking Rivia, who was unconscious and had a sword sticking through his side.

“Fuck,” Jaskier huffed in defeat before dashing to his side. “What happened?” he demanded.

“We were attacked…bandits,” the girl explained.

Jaskier opened the saddle bag where Geralt had used to keep his potions and rooted around. Upon discovering they were all empty he began to check the other bags.

“Does he have any more potions? Specifically a reddish one?” he asked and the girl shook her head. Then she squinted at him strangely. “Fuck, how did bandits get the drop on you?” Jaskier muttered to the unconscious witcher. Then there was suddenly a dagger pointed at his chest.

“Woah!” he shouted and raised his arms.

“Who are you? How do you know about his potions?” the girl demanded, her eyes wide as she shifted foot to foot.

“I’m called Jaskier. I’m a bard, Geralt and I are…” He cut himself off and swallowed the word ‘friends’ before he could say it. They weren’t friends, Geralt had made that much perfectly clear. “We used to travel together,” he finished softly.

The girl lowered the dagger slightly.

“You did?”

Jaskier nodded emphatically.

She dropped her hands and looked frantically over at Geralt.

“Please. Please I can’t lose anyone else,” she pleaded, her face crumbling. Jaskier’s heart ached at the sight, more so than it already was, but he puffed his chest out and walked to Geralt purposefully.

“You won’t,” he promised. “There’s a lord to the west of here, about a days ride. I played for him recently, he has a healer.”

“Can we make it there in time?” the girl asked. Jaskier leaned to examine the wound. It was bleeding sluggishly but luckily the cut itself hadn’t been widened too much.

“Not like this, we need to bandage the wound. There’s supplies in that bag.” He pointed to Roach’s other side and the girl jumped into action. He was surprised how easily he remembered how this went, it had been some time since he’d last seen Geralt but everything seemed to be in the same place.

Except for perhaps Geralt’s organs, but Jaskier hoped that wasn’t the case. When the girl came back with the bandages he was gently removing pieces of the witcher’s armor. He traded with the child and began to wrap Geralt’s torso.

“Shouldn’t we take it out?” she asked.

“Absolutely not, the sword is acting like a plug for now, keeping the blood in along with our bandages. If we take it out he’ll bleed to death,” Jaskier explained and the girl shuddered. “You see Geralt, I was paying attention,” he mumbled a little bitterly. The girl frowned at him.

“So now what do we do?”

“Now we start moving. We’ll have to go slow so the wound doesn’t tear.”

He bent and cupped his hands for the girl to step into, Geralt’s feet were currently occupying the stirrups. She looked at him in confusion. He offered his best comforting smile.

“You’ll hold him steady while I guide,” he said. She gave a determined nod before stepping into his hands and mounting Roach.

“Let’s go,” she said and Jaskier took the lead. With no moon overhead to guide them, they followed the road west.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Geralt needs a nap, it was a long ride to the tavern. And Jaskier needs a hug, but that's kind of difficult when the person who ought to be hugging him has a sword sticking out their front. And is also unconscious.  
> Leave a kudo and a comment if you're enjoying so far!


	3. Stories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ciri and Jaskier get to talking on the way to a healer.

They settled into a steady, and fairly brisk pace. It left Jaskier’s feet aching, he really wasn’t wearing the shoes for this. Luckily the girl was willing to carry his lute so his back would be spared the same pain as his soles. He was reluctant to place the instrument in another’s hands, but with the much more important cargo of an injured witcher he decided to compromise for the sake of haste.

The sun was just beginning to rise, tinting the morning a soft blue as thin clouds drifted overhead and birds began to flit amongst the trees.

“How did you know Geralt?” the girl asked and Jaskier smiled. The grin faltered after a moment, but he kept his back to the girl so she saw none of it.

“I accompanied him on a great many adventures and sung of his exploits to audiences from taverns to palaces across the continent. I made him famous,” he added with a little smirk of triumph that he didn’t quite feel.

“So you travelled together. For how long?”

“On and off for over a decade.”

“Ten years?” she balked and Jaskier looked over his shoulder at her. Her eyes were wide and fascinated, it was a nice change from the fear and frustration in them earlier. “You must be good friends then.”

Jaskier faltered in his walking.

“Not exactly,” he replied.

“What do you mean? You can’t have travelled together for so long if you weren’t friends.”

“It’s…complicated. I considered us friends. Geralt did not share my view.”

The girl fell silent for a long moment.

“Did you do something? Something to hurt him?” she asked. Jaskier let out a loud and bitter laugh that was swallowed up by the trees on either side of the path.

“According to him, I did everything. He holds me responsible for every bad thing in his life.”

Another moment of silence passed.

“Are you responsible?” she inquired silently from behind him. He tried to keep his chin held high but eventually he sighed and deflated.

“I ask myself that often enough. I don’t know, maybe. I certainly didn’t do anything to him on purpose, but perhaps…perhaps I am simply bad luck.” He trailed off and kept his eyes trained on the dirt of the road as his feet felt heavier with each admission. He didn’t know why he was telling the child all this, maybe the lack of sleep was loosening his lips, or a desire to lessen some of the sorrow and fear her could see held in her shoulders. She was far too young for the weight he saw there.

“I don’t think you’re bad luck. You’re helping save him now,” she piped up and Jaskier allowed himself a small smile.

“I suppose I am.”

The sound of Roach’s hooves filled the air, drowning out the bard’s steps.

“So what exactly happened? What bad things does he blame you for?”

“You ask a great many questions my sweet girl, I think it’s my turn for a few. First of all, what is your name?” He was eager to brush away the heaviness in his heart that came with seeing Geralt again. His stomach had all but dropped through the earth when he saw the man limp and bleeding on the horse. He didn’t know which scared him more: the prospect of Geralt dying, or the prospect of Geralt living and having to face him again.

“…Fiona,” the girl answered. Jaskier raised an eyebrow.

“And what are you doing travelling with a witcher Fiona?”

“He saved me from the bandits.”

The bard slowed a little and looked over his shoulder.

“If you’re in enough danger that you feel the need to lie, you should probably do a better job of it,” he replied and he could practically hear the girl stiffen behind him. “Don’t worry, I won’t hurt you. I just happen to know that Geralt doesn’t tell strangers where he keeps his potions, and I have yet to encounter any bandits that could overcome him in a fight.”

The silence stretched on.

“You’re princess Cirilla, of Cintra, aren’t you?” he asked as gently as possible.

“How did you know?” she answered after a moment. He smiled warmly over his shoulder.

“You’re the spitting image of your mother. Couldn’t see in the dark, but in the light of morn the resemblance is undeniable.”

“You knew my mother?”

Jaskier winced. “‘Knew’ is a strong word. I was in attendance at the banquet where Geralt saved your father’s life, your parents were wed, and he claimed the law of surprise and was bound to you.”

Ciri was completely quiet behind him and he couldn’t help but turn to look. She was wearing a baffled expression.

“You have heard that story, haven’t you?” he asked. She shook her head and he about seethed with mild anger and excitement, clasping a hand over his chest.

“You have been done a disservice my sweet girl. It was an incredible affair really, I thought I was going to die at least six times, but in the end I survived to sing of the event, and might I say that was some of my best work.”

He told Ciri the whole story, top to bottom. Of her father’s curse, Calanthe’s underhanded attempt to kill him, and his own (somewhat embellished) involvement in the resolution. When he would glance over his shoulder Ciri’s eyes were fixed on him, wide and sparkling. She was enraptured with his flowing descriptions of the fighting and her mother’s magic and he felt a warmth taking root in his chest, a flowering fondness for the princess.

“My grandmother never told me the story like that.”

“Well your grandmother doesn’t tell stories for a living. I do.”

“Didn’t,” Ciri corrected and Jaskier’s heart fell.

“Right. I’m so sorry.”

The princess said nothing. Just as Jaskier was thinking of breaking the silence she piped up.

“So Geralt was only at the banquet because of you?”

“Indeed, he was there to protect me from lords jealous of my musical talents.”

“That means if it weren’t for you, he and I wouldn’t be bound. I wouldn’t be his by the law of surprise.”

Jaskier opened and closed his mouth a few times.

“Well, yes, I suppose,” he finally answered.

“Does that mean…am I one of the bad things he blames you for?” she asked, oh so quiet and vulnerable. Jaskier stopped walking for the first time since they had started and he turned to face her. Her face was schooled to appear flat and uncaring, but he could see the uncertainty and the pain underneath.

“No,” he answered firmly. “No my sweet girl. If I ever did anything good for Geralt, it was helping destiny guide him to you.”

She brightened at that, a small smile gracing her dirtied but delicate face. He returned the smile but as he turned away the inside of his mouth felt sour. He didn’t want to think it was a lie, as Geralt’s attitudes must have changed if he was with the girl now, but Geralt had blamed him for the child surprise.

One blessing he had said, asked for in the cruelest way possible. The witcher had roared as if he thought that if he tore Jaskier to pieces with his words he might shred everything they had shared as well. Every adventure that the bard held dearer than even his precious lute and Geralt, if he had had another Djinn, would have wished them out of existence. Worse even than that though were the moments between, the nights seeking shelter from the rain, or the vain attempts to teach Jaskier to fight, or their shared warmth in the winter, the closest Jaskier had ever been to Geralt and he had never been so terrified and so at peace. It was the quiet mornings and the songs over the fire and the conversations, stilted as they were. Geralt had spit on it and declared that he hated all that Jaskier loved.

The bard had thought those moments were perhaps a gift he had made to share with the man he had fallen in love with, knowing that love would never be returned, but Geralt wanted none of it because it came with Jaskier attached. And the one blessing, the one thing the man who claimed to want nothing wanted, was to be rid of Jaskier.

The terrible aching in his chest tightened his throat as he kept walking, nearly forgetting about the girl behind him until she spoke up.

“Tell me another story,” she requested, sounding more and more like a child with each moment. A good thing, Jaskier thought, he’d oblige her with as many stories as she wanted if it allowed her to be young and less burdened for a moment. He’d even tell her stories of Geralt if she wanted, as much as it pained him.

So he did. He filled the walk with his voice and wove her legends of monster hunts and sorceresses and cursed kings and dragons. And it made him happy even as it pried at the cracks in his broken heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ciri: It must be strange for you to travel with Geralt being so quiet.  
> Jaskier: Actually no this is pretty much what it used to be like.
> 
> Should a powerful witcher like Geralt be unconscious for this long? Hard to say, but now no one can correct Jaskier when he fudges the details, but it also means that no one can correct the harsh words that Jaskier has taken to heart.  
> New chapters should be up soon, leave a comment if you like it they really make my day.


	4. Stubborn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier and Ciri arrive at their destination, but old fears rear their ugly head.

The lord’s estate loomed on the horizon. It couldn’t be called a palace exactly, it was more of a manor with a wide gate and front-facing walls that gave it the pretense of a palace with none of the follow-through. It was still a sight for sore eyes and even sorer legs.

Jaskier broke into a run despite the protests in his limbs. Geralt was looking paler by the minute and the bandages had soaked through with his blood. Ciri was clinging to his back with her eyebrows knit tight enough to wring the sweat from her brow. Jaskier knew he must look much the same.

They arrived at the gate and were immediately barred by the guards.

“What business have you here?” one of them growled.

“This man is hurt, he needs a healer.” Jaskier gestured to Geralt but didn’t lift his hood, knowing how hospitality could shrivel when faced with a witcher. The bard tried to barge his way past the guards.

“We’ll need to ask Lord Ferram,” the other guard protested, stepping in the way with a hand up.

“We don’t have time. Ask your lord’s forgiveness and we’ll find a way to make it worth his while,” Jaskier gritted out.

“Please,” Ciri pleaded from atop Roach, looking imploringly into the two men’s eyes. After a moment, the second of the two relented and stepped aside.

“Fine, Sevinna is in the south wing, she can help your friend.”

Jaskier and Ciri thanked him and rushed to the entrance the guard had indicated. They ignored the men arguing behind them and the looming concern of the lord’s approval in favor of getting Geralt help as soon as possible.

The south wing of the manor attached to a green house and at their approach a woman gathering herbs spotted them through the window. Her eyes widened and she rushed out to meet them.

“Quickly! Get him off the horse, gently though, gently,” she called to them, running over. She was old, with long, curly white hair and wrinkled brown skin. Her gown pooled around her as she helped Jaskier lower Geralt gently from the saddle.

As they carried him inside his hood fell from his face, revealing the white hair and parts of his black armor. Sevinna frowned but did not pause.

“A witcher?” she asked. Jaskier nodded and squared his jaw.

“He’s not dangerous, not to anyone who isn’t a monster. I can personally—”

The healer made a sharp hushing noise at him and shook her head.

“I am not afraid of him, but his nature will change how I treat the wound. Now lift him onto the bed.”

Jaskier did as commanded and hoisted Geralt onto a table-like bed. Cirilla was walking at their heels and though unable to help with his fairly substantial weight she frequently reached out to touch and grab at the witcher, as if to reassure herself that he wasn’t going to disappear.

“Now go, I need space to work.” Sevinna began to shepherd them out of the room even as both of them protested.

“Will he be alright?” Ciri managed to ask fearfully.

“We shall see,” Sevinna replied and slammed the door in their faces.

Jaskier sighed, his lips tight, but as he did so he caught the sound of a choked sob from the girl at his side. He turned to see Ciri’s hands clutching the front of her own cloak as she tried to hold back tears.

“Hey, hey now. It’ll be alright,” Jaskier reassured her, dropping to a knee so he could better look up into her piercing eyes.

“You don’t know that,” she snapped at him.

“Sure I do.”

“How?” she asked and Jaskier felt his insides puddle with a longing to take away the fear and anger and grief in Ciri’s face. He placed both hands on her shoulders.

“I know, my sweet girl, because Geralt is the most stubborn, hardheaded ass on the continent. It’ll take more than a sword to do him in.” Ciri still looked uncertain. “It’s true!” he continued, “He’s as obstinate as he smells, nothing can get rid of that onion stench and nothing can get rid of Geralt.”

Cirilla laughed a little through her tears.

“You know the first time we met he punched me? Right in the gut,” Jaskier recounted, causing the princess to raise her eyebrows. “You’ve spent the better part of a day with me, imagine how strong he must be to have not killed me outright.”

“Stop it,” Ciri said with a smile and a playful push. “You’re not so bad.”

“Well then I suppose I’ve finally met someone even more stubborn than Geralt. He certainly can’t die now, he knows you’d never let him get away with it.” Jaskier offered the princess his warmest smile, praying to the gods he wasn’t giving her false hope. She sniffled and then lunged forward. The hug nearly knocked Jaskier to his bottom but he managed to stay upright as she held tight around his neck. After a moment of surprise he reached up and hugged her back. He pulled her close and rested his cheek atop her head, her fine blonde hair tickling his chin.

“Thank you Jaskier,” she whispered into his shoulder.

“It is my genuine honor Cirilla,” he replied. She stepped back and he only realized in the cool absence of her warmth that he had needed the comfort as well.

“Ciri. Geralt calls me Ciri, you can too.”

“Ciri,” he repeated.

“You there, bard, Lord Ferram wants to speak with you,” a guard shouted from the hall behind Jaskier. The bard stood and arranged himself to look as presentable as possible.

“I’m off to charm a lord, look after Geralt will you?” He offered the words breezily, in the hopes that it would calm at least Ciri’s nerves if not his own. She nodded in determination and stood, her chin held proudly. Something in Jaskier’s chest swelled at the sight, perhaps it was pride at her strength, or even admiration. He could see her grandmother in her, in the best way.

With that, he walked off to acquaint himself with Lord Ferram’s good graces. Or at least he hoped to.

* * *

It proved easier than he could have hoped. Ferram had recognized him and greeted him warmly, declaring in a booming voice that the witcher of song was most welcome in his home. Jaskier was pleasantly surprised, he had been prepared to beg, but the lord took him by the shoulder and offered the three of them hospitality after hospitality.

Jaskier could hear Geralt’s voice in the back of his head. “ _You see what happens when you don’t sleep with their wives._ ” The bard pushed down the urge to snap back that Lord Ferram didn’t have a wife. Geralt wasn’t there, and the lord probably would take offense at such an outburst.

Jaskier rejoined Ciri in the lavish room they had been given. The bed hung with drapes and a fire roared in the hearth. She was beaming when he stepped inside.

“He’s going to be alright!” she cried and rushed over to grab his hand. Jaskier let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding and he could suddenly feel his exhaustion, the worry had been holding it at bay.

“Thank the gods,” he muttered.

“Thank yourself bard, he only lives because of you.” Sevinna appeared from around a corner, wiping her hands in a rag. Jaskier sputtered and raised his hands in denial.

“It’s true,” Ciri insisted.

“He should be awake soon enough, I’m sure you’re eager to speak with him.” The healer offered Jaskier a gentle smile that he tried to return but found he could not. The thought of facing Geralt, awake, put ice in his veins. He pictured the witcher blinking into consciousness and those golden eyes falling on him. Would there be anger in them? Disappointment? Even hatred? Jaskier didn’t think he could take it if there was.

“There shall be a banquet tonight to celebrate!” Lord Ferram announced, clapping the bard on the back. “Food and wine and music, in honor of the mighty witcher!”

Jaskier felt his breath quicken. Spending an entire night with Geralt, conscious Geralt, and undoubtedly being asked to sing about him. It was all too much.

“Ah, unless you are in possession of another bard, I am afraid it will only be food and wine,” he said, dropping his eyes to the stone floor.

“Will you not be staying?” Lord Ferram asked, stepping around him.

“No, I really must be going.”

“What!?” Ciri cried and he couldn’t help but look at her, anger and confusion were printed onto her features.

“I see. Well, I wish you safe travels bard.” The lord took his leave, followed by Sevinna whose eyes lingered on Jaskier, her gaze pitying.

As soon as the door closed Cirilla marched up to him.

“What do you mean you’re not staying?” she demanded.

“Ciri I—”

“You can’t just leave! You saved his life, both our lives.”

“My sweet girl, please—”

“Think about it, what are the odds I would have found you in that tavern? You of all people were the one to help us, even before you knew it was Geralt. You, the same person who brought Geralt and I together in the first place.”

“I—”

“It’s destiny! You belong with us, you can’t leave, you can’t.”

Her voice cracked and faltered and she dropped her head to her shoulder, biting back tears.

“Ciri please try to understand.”

The princess turned away from him and walked to the bed, sitting heavily on the plush sheets. Jaskier sighed and moved to sit beside her, grateful that she didn’t move away even if she wouldn’t meet his eyes.

“The last time Geralt and I spoke, it wasn’t exactly…pleasant,” he began.

“He blamed you for everything, I know.”

“It isn’t just that Ciri. He said…” Jaskier trailed off. Ciri finally looked up at him and he took a deep breath to ready himself. “He said that if life could give him one blessing, it would be to take me off his hands.”

Silence settled over the two of them like a sheet of freshly fallen snow. The hurt in Cirilla’s face didn’t go away, but the anger did.

“He doesn’t want to see me Ciri.”

“You’re wrong,” she stated and Jaskier had to clench his jaw to stop the ache in his heart from pouring out. “I’m sure he didn’t mean what he said, and once he finds out you saved his life he’ll be grateful, he’ll be happy to see you.”

“I don’t think—”

“He will! You’re his friend.”

Jaskier tore his gaze from her, now it was him who was choking back his tears. His throat felt cinched tight and his mouth tasted sour.

“You’re scared,” Ciri muttered in realization. The bard wiped his face roughly and nodded into his chest.

“Yes, I’m scared. I’m terrified of what will happen when he wakes up. Perhaps he’ll be grateful, even glad to see me, but if he’s as angry as the last time we spoke I…gods I don’t think I could bear it.” _Because I love him_ hung unsaid in the air.

Cirilla reached over and took his hand.

“He won’t be. If he so much as grumbles at you I’ll set him right. You said it yourself, I’m more stubborn than he is,” she stated defiantly and Jaskier huffed a laugh.

“You are braver than I my sweet girl,” he said, finally looking over and taking her hand. “But I’m sorry, I can’t.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier! You idiot! Ciri is trying to adopt you!
> 
> Thank you all for your lovely comments and support! The response to this piece has been so heartwarming I appreciate it so much.  
> It's coming along pretty quick and new chapters will be coming soon, let me know if you're enjoying so far!


	5. Trapped

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt finally wakes up to a none-too-pleased Ciri, and Jaskier overhears something.

Geralt awoke with a groan. He was pleased to note that he was both alive and no longer had a sword sticking out of him. He was less pleased to note that he couldn’t immediately see the princess.

“Ciri,” he rasped out, sitting up painfully to look for the girl.

“I’m here Geralt,” she said and he felt a small, cold hand slip into his own. He lowered himself back down with a sigh. He could take a moment longer to let the pain subside as a quick check revealed no immediate threats.

“Where are we?” he grunted.

“Lord Ferram’s estate, we’re safe here.”

Geralt hummed and looked over at the princess. She looked relieved to see him but also…angry. He cocked a questioning eyebrow at her.

“Aren’t you going to ask me how I knew to bring you here?”

Geralt groaned under his breath, he didn’t like the tone of that question. “How did you know to bring me here?” he asked anyway.

“Jaskier,” she answered simply, and the witcher felt his heart sink at the same time that his eyes widened. It had been a long time since he’d heard that name, even longer since he’d set eyes on the other man. The familiar specter of guilt settled on his chest. “He offered help even before he knew it was you. Bandaged your wound, guided us all this way, and convinced the lord to help us.”

“Where is he?” Geralt asked quickly, his eyes darting around the room for the sight of a familiar lute case or a colorful doublet. Ciri crossed her arms over her chest.

“He left.”

Disappointment sunk in the witcher’s heart like a stone.

“He said you didn’t want to see him and he left.”

Geralt looked her over, her mouth tight and her eyebrows drawn.

“You’re upset,” he stated, making his mind to sit up in spite of the pain.

“Of course I’m upset! You said such terrible things to him.”

“That was years ago.” Geralt dropped his legs off the side of the bed and got to his feet.

“And? You drove him off without even being awake to do it.”

“Not my fault he can’t let it go.”

Ciri stepped in front of Geralt before he could walk to the door and barred his path.

“So he was right then? You do hate him.” Though her stance was strong the bobbing of her throat and her shifting gaze betrayed her uncertainty. The witcher’s shoulders sagged.

“No, I don’t hate him.”

“And what about me?” she asked, and Geralt frowned in confusion.

“What about you?”

“He said you blamed him, for everything bad in your life. He wouldn’t say so but I know one of those things is me, your child surprise.” She looked up at him, her voice thin but her jaw set. “And? Am I really such a burden?”

Geralt felt remorse sink into his bones and he lowered himself to one knee. He looked into her face. He had once dreaded her, thought of her like a heavy shackle of fate, to be avoided as long as he could. Now, now all he wanted to do was run a hand over her cheek and wipe away the doubt he could see in her face.

“I was wrong. I was angry and took it out on my friend. He deserved better, and so do you.” Giving into the urge he reached up and cupped her jaw. “I’m sorry.”

“Then you agree,” she said, her sorrow slipping away.

“Agree with what?”

“Agree that the very first thing we should do once you’re well is ride out and find Jaskier so you can apologize to him too.”

Geralt dropped his hand as Ciri looked down at him, a smug smile tugging at her lips.

“Do I have a choice?” he asked.

“No.” She turned away and headed for the door.

“We have far greater worries than Jaskier, princess,” he tried to insist but she rounded on him with a severe expression that shut him up in an instant. “I see you’re set on getting him back,” he finished, sighing in defeat.

“I like him, he was kind to me, told me stories about you and my family,” she replied softly. Then she fixed Geralt with a look, her eyes glinting mischievously. “Besides, you miss him, I can tell.”

With that she slipped through the door, the implication that he was to follow hanging in the air. He couldn’t help but feel that he had walked rather foolishly into a trap, but he also couldn’t help but feel happy about it.

* * *

Jaskier, meanwhile, was sulking over a tankard of ale. He had meant to down it quickly to drown his sorrows but his resolve to do so had withered at the taste. As much as he wanted to be blissfully drunk (largely so he could blame any crying on the alcohol) his palate refused him the fastest method to get there.

He had realized shortly after leaving Lord Ferram’s estate that he was far too exhausted and sore to travel far. So he had found the nearest tavern, just around an hours’ walk, and collapsed into a corner table to mope.

“How Geralt of you,” he muttered to his reflection in the ale.

The tavern had a good buzz of conversation going, but Jaskier didn’t feel up to performing that night so he wasn’t paying attention. Someone flirting with the barmaid here, someone short of coin there, some of Lord Ferram’s men walking in the door, a game of cards in the corner.

Hang on.

Jaskier looked up suddenly when he registered a little late what he had just seen. A small group of the Lord Ferram’s men had just entered the tavern. Armored and armed they approached the bar. Jaskier scooped up his ale and his lute and did his best to nonchalantly worm closer.

“Sending you out? In the middle of the night?” the bartender asked. Jaskier looked between him and the head guard, they had the same too-thin nose and piercing blue eyes. Related then, probably brothers.

“Yes, I don’t have time to head home and tell Phera that I won’t be back tonight, could you?”

The bartender nodded. “What’s this all about?” he asked.

The guard leaned over the bar, his voice dropping. Jaskier inched closer, hiding his interest by sipping his ale and propping himself as if drunk against a nearby table. He missed the guard’s words but not the bartender’s reply.

“Nilfgaard? Are you sure that’s wise?”

“Apparently the reward for the witcher and the girl is enormous. Besides, it’s not up to me, Ferram’s the one who decided.”

Jaskier didn’t need to hear any more, which was good because his blood was roaring in his ears. He did his best to hide his wide eyes and shaking hands as he deposited a few coins next to his unfinished tankard and stood up.

He needed to get out, to warn Geralt and Ciri and get them away from Ferram’s manor before it was too late.

He tried to be as inconspicuous as possible as he moved toward the door. He kept his back to the guards, his head down, and his lute case clutched to his chest. Out of the corner of his eye he caught one of the tavern patrons tracking him.

“Oi, bard,” they called after him. Not loud enough to attract attention, yet.

“Hang on!”

He picked up the pace as a few others began to take notice. He just needed to get out and run as fast as his legs could carry him to the manor. No, scratch that, he’d take a horse, steal one if he had to.

“Come on bard! You can’t leave without giving us a song!” the drunken patron shouted after him and a few others voiced their agreement. He was nearly there, the door was just a few steps away.

“Play that one of yours, the one about the witcher!”

Jaskier froze, because just at that moment a guard had stepped through the door to stand in front of him. He felt the others tense and grow silent at his back and he squeezed his eyes shut.

_Fuck._

“Grab him!” the leader of the guards shouted just as Jaskier barreled forward in an effort to get through the door. He knocked both the man in front of him and himself to the ground, but the path was clear. He scrambled to his feet at the sound of a blade unsheathing and made to run for it.

He heard the cut more than he felt it, at least at first. It was a tear of fabric and flesh that he knew distantly was his own. He stumbled, but didn’t fall. The pain came a moment later.

He could hear the guards behind him and he quickly made up his mind that if he was going to take a horse, it would be one of theirs. Tied up outside was a group of them with Ferram’s crest on their saddlebags. He spotted the hilt of a dagger on one of them and borrowed it to cut all the horses loose at once.

He pulled himself onto the nearest horse and saw the team of guards rushing at him in the light spilling from the tavern windows. With as loud a holler as he could manage and a few slaps at the hinds of the other mounts he scattered them. He dug his heels into the sides of his own steed and took off toward the manor.

The guards’ shouts grew quieter behind him, but not before he heard a distant click and a faint whistle louder than the wind in his ears.

He couldn’t help but scream and keel forward at the sudden white-hot pain in his leg. The horse kept moving, he made sure of that, but looking down he could see a crossbow bolt stuck through his thigh. His eyes drifted next to the deep gash in his side, bleeding heavily through his shirt and pooling by his hip. Every movement seemed wring pain from the injured muscles, sharp and sickening as the smell of blood that was suddenly filling his nostrils.

But he couldn’t stop, he needed to get to Geralt and Ciri, to warn them. His wounds could wait, he didn’t know if his friends could.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier's in for it now folks.
> 
> And who needs a cohesive upload schedule? If I want to write obsessively I shall! It's not like I have a thesis I'm supposed to be working on (I do).
> 
> Hope you're enjoying some good old-fashioned suffering for our bard. Leave me a comment and let me know what you think.  
> Thank you!


	6. Bloody

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier arrives with his warning, but is it too late?

Ciri and Geralt quickly discovered that they had in common the attitude of hating parties but also loving parties. For fairly similar reasons, in that they both had a distaste for decorum and tradition but a love of a good time that involved good food.

The witcher was on his feet, standing on the shadier side of a pillar, and enjoying a strong drink while a fairly meager crowd of nobles chatted and dined. Ciri popped up next to him, her plate heaped high with food.

“You should sit while you eat,” he said over his shoulder. Her chewing didn’t stop.

“Why?”

“Better for digestion.”

Ciri snorted and leaned on the pillar beside him. She followed his gaze over the room.

“Is this what you normally do at parties? Stand in a corner and glare?” she asked.

“I don’t normally attend parties.”

“Except when bodyguarding Jaskier.”

“More like babysitting.”

A small fist connected with his shoulder and he shot a severe look behind him at the princess. She blinked at him innocently.

“What? Someone’s got to get you in the habit of being nice to him, can’t have you driving him off a third time.”

Geralt narrowed his eyes at her and hummed.

“I’m sure he’s much more interesting at parties than you,” she muttered into her plate.

“Eat your food, princess.”

* * *

Jaskier had arrived at the manor. He could see the warm, dancing firelight pouring through the windows of the lower floor and the guards patrolling the front. He was tucked off the side, hidden amongst the trees with the stolen horse.

There was blood all over him. He knew that if he walked in looking as he did he’d be stopped, asked questions, brought to the healer before he could get word to Ciri and Geralt. He knew the guards couldn’t be far behind him, even for all he had tried to delay them. He didn’t have the time to spare, and he couldn’t risk the lord’s men finding out that he knew of their betrayal and intended to prevent it by any means necessary.

So he thanked his lucky stars that he had a spare set of clothes in his case and a small pack of bandages in the guard’s pack. It wasn’t much, but it would have to do. Using the stolen dagger he cut the two ends of the crossbow bolt as close to his leg as he could manage. Jostling the shaft nearly caused him to black out, but he gritted his teeth and braced against a nearby tree. Once it was short enough to fit beneath his trousers he stripped and used what was left of his shirt to clean the blood from his skin, tossing the garments into the brush when he was done. They were too bloodstained to be worn again anyway. He had only enough bandages for the wound in his side. It was a long gash, and he pinched the ragged edges together, even as it sent pain shooting through his veins and a scream pushing at his throat. He kept quiet and bound it tightly. There was nothing left for what remained of the bolt in his leg, but it was bleeding less anyway. If he was careful, most of the blood would run down his leg into his boot and go unnoticed for as long as it took to get to Geralt.

Gingerly, he dressed himself, slung his empty lute case over his back (he hid the instrument in the woods, safer for her), and headed to the front entrance. Every step sent pain shooting up his side and pounding in his skull, but he had to walk normally, a limp would be noticed. His side throbbed horribly but he put a swagger in his step once he arrived at the gate.

“Who goes there?” a guard called.

“Do you not remember me my friend? I am the bard who brought the witcher!” Jaskier stepped forward, raised his arms, and bowed with a flourish. It was pure agony, the urge to vomit all but clawing at his throat. But he stood and gave a blinding smile, he was a performer after all, and a damn good one.

“Why are you here? I thought you left,” the guard said, stepping up to Jaskier in an attempt to look menacing.

“I changed my mind, the food and drink of a lord is much finer than what I could find elsewhere.”

“Elsewhere?”

_Ah fuck,_ Jaskier thought, rummaging around in his mind for a more convincing lie. He leaned forward conspiratorially and whispered.

“And truth be told, I found hidden in my case a rather suggestive letter from a certain noble lady, inviting me to her chambers with all kinds of delicious promises.”

“Alright, that’s enough,” the guard grumbled, leaning back and growing red under his helmet.

“Believe me, I never would have left had I known the services being offered by such a reputable, talented tongu—”

“Just go in,” the guard snapped, and with a smirk Jaskier obeyed.

Once past the guards he allowed his face to fall. He could feel the wetness of blood in the sole of his boot and the bandages around his side were beginning to feel sticky. Beyond that, he felt lightheaded. The shrieking pain was already doing its best to drag him to the ground so blood loss was an unwelcome addition. But he took a deep, shuddering, excruciating breath and walked confidently toward the ballroom.

* * *

A lord had asked Ciri to dance, an offer she had politely declined and Geralt had impolitely warded off with a death glare. The princess was giggling under her palm at Geralt’s remark about a lord’s resemblance to a drowner, and he was smirking over at her, a warmth in his eyes.

That was when the doors opened and Jaskier walked through.

Geralt was the first to notice, pushing off of the pillar to stand ramrod straight. His heart immediately picked up at the sight of the man and the room grew sharp and loud as his senses heightened. It was like stepping into a fight, except that he felt completely out of his element, and he didn’t want to kill the object of his focus. Quite the opposite in fact.

Jaskier’s eyes scanned the room until they fell on Geralt. The witcher felt his breath flutter when their gazes met, he was thrilled and terrified. Since when had harmless, hapless Jaskier become more frightening than any monster?

Ciri was right. Gods had he missed him.

The bard smiled brightly, too brightly, and strode across the room directly toward Geralt. That was when Cirilla spotted him.

“Jaskier!” she cried, and ran to greet him. His smile softened into something more genuine at the sight of her. Then she barreled into his arms and his eyes went wide and his face went pale.

That was when Geralt smelled it, rolling off the bard in waves, the undeniable scent of blood.

“You came back!” Ciri beamed up at him. With a heavy swallow, Jaskier looked down at her weakly, his brow shining with sweat.

“I did, my sweet girl.”

Geralt was on the two of them in an instant and he clamped a hand onto the bard’s arm.

“Jaskier, what’s going on?” he growled.

“It’s good to see you too Geralt. You see I—”

“Bard!” Lord Ferram’s booming voice cut over the crowd. “I see you have returned to us. Please, fill this chamber with some music! We all long for some excitement.”

Jaskier smiled wanly.

“I would love to my lord, but, you see,” he slung his case from his back and opened it to reveal that it was empty, “part of the reason for my return is that I forgot my lute! I must return to the room you generously offered to retrieve it. Once that is done I shall flood this manor with songs the likes of which you haven’t heard before and shan’t hear again!”

The party-goers cheered and raised their glasses. Jaskier mirrored the motion and the smell of blood intensified. Something was terribly wrong, and Geralt needed to know what.

“I’ll unlock the room for you, come,” he said, loud enough for the others to hear, and practically dragged Jaskier out of the ballroom with Ciri in tow. Lord Ferram watched them go, his eyes narrowing in suspicion.

Outside of the ballroom, Geralt thrust Jaskier in front of them and stared him down.

“You’d never forget your lute. What’s going on? What are you really doing here?” the witcher growled.

“Geralt!” Ciri cried from his side, looking between him and Jaskier with mounting anger.

“He’s right my sweet girl, there’s more going on.”

Her eyes widened as the bard stuck out a hand to lean on the wall. Geralt noted that he looked unusually pasty.

“Lord Ferram sent guards to betray you to Nilfgaard, I overheard them discussing it and came as quickly as I was able.”

Geralt clenched his fists and cursed under his breath. Ciri’s mouth dropped open.

“I’m sorry, I wouldn’t have brought you here if I’d known,” Jaskier breathed, looking away.

“It’s not your fault,” the princess snapped, her jaw suddenly set. She spared a heated glare for Geralt before stomping off toward the room. “We need to get out of here, quickly,” she said over her shoulder.

Jaskier made to follow, and the witcher saw him stumble. Geralt grabbed him under the arm and half-helped him, half-dragged him down the hall.

“What’s wrong with you?” he muttered, keeping his eyes ahead.

“A great many things Geralt, you’ll have to be more specific.”

“You reek of blood, what happened?”

“Ah, that.” Jaskier’s voice dropped and the cocky smile that had been plastered to his face since he walked in dropped. He suddenly looked haggard, like something was taking every ounce of his strength.

“The guards I overheard also overheard my association with a certain witcher. They were less than pleased and so attempted to halt my egress rather gruesomely.”

“Speak plainly.”

“They realized I was coming to warn you so they attacked me, with some success.”

They arrived at the room to see Cirilla readying to leave. Geralt’s belongings were already prepared, now the princess was dumping everything valuable she could get her hands on into a pillowcase.

“Ciri, are you stealing?” Jaskier asked.

“They’re betraying us, don’t expect me to feel bad for nicking a few sets of clothes,” she replied without ceasing her pilfering. Geralt hummed and smiled at her.

Down the hall behind them, a commotion broke out. With his hearing the witcher could make out the shouts of guards to “find them!” and “don’t let them escape!”

“Fuck.”

“What is it?” Jaskier asked.

“They’re on to us. We need to go. Now.”

With that he pulled away from Jaskier to fetch his swords. He ushered Ciri into the hall, grabbed Jaskier, and the three took off at a run.

They didn’t make it very far. Geralt felt Jaskier falter and turned just in time to see him fall to the ground with a pained shout.

“Jaskier!” Ciri gasped and rushed to his side. The bard groaned and rolled to his back as the witcher kneeled down beside him. His doublet fell aside to reveal a growing stain of blood that stretched across his entire side. The princess sucked in a breath.

“Damn it Jaskier,” Geralt rumbled.

“If you could refrain from insulting me for a single moment, that would be grea-ah, ah.” His speech devolved into pained noises and he reached down toward his leg.

“Your leg is injured too,” the witcher stated.

“Crossbow bolt,” Jaskier confirmed through clenched teeth.

The sounds of voices and clattering armor came echoing down the hall and all three heads snapped fearfully in that direction.

“We need to go,” Cirilla said. Geralt grabbed Jaskier under his arms and yanked him upright. The bard gasped in pain, holding back a scream and his legs buckled before he could get them underneath him. He collapsed to the floor again, a pained sob tearing from his mouth.

“Come on Jaskier,” Geralt prompted but the bard shook his head.

“You go,” he hissed. “I’m injured, I’ll slow you down and you won’t make it out. Leave me and go.”

“No!” Ciri cried, dropping to her knees to grasp the bard’s hand. He squeezed her fingers and offered a watery smile.

“You’ll be alright, Ciri. Geralt will look after you.”

“But we need you, to look after him,” she insisted. Jaskier looked up at her, his face crumbling into a loving sorrow.

“My sweet girl, you’re the strongest, most stubborn person I’ve ever met. You’ll look after the stinky old witcher.”

“No, you come with us! You’re meant to, you’re meant to be with us.” Ciri’s voice broke and she looked over at Geralt desperately. The sounds of voices and footsteps grew closer.

“We’re not leaving you,” the witcher stated, and looped Jaskier’s arm over his shoulder. He lifted his entire weight and practically carried him down the hall at a brisk pace, his jaw set.

Beside him, the bard sucked in pained breaths, strangled wails slipping past his lips as he struggled to break out of Geralt’s grip.

“Geralt,” he muttered. “Geralt, stop.” They weren’t moving fast enough, so Geralt picked up the pace. “Geralt, I can’t, you need to leave me behind.” He ignored the bard, he had to ignore him and ignore the horrible feeling crawling up his throat that felt an awful lot like panic. “Geralt please!” Jaskier cried and pushed away, crumpling to the floor again. Geralt went with him, his fists balled in the fabric of the bard’s doublet and his breaths coming quick, ruffling the man’s hair.

Jaskier looked up at him, his face a twisted mix of anger, pain, and grief.

“Just this once, let me be something other than a curse to you!” he shouted, and Geralt froze.

The bard dropped his head, no longer able to hold back the raggedness of his breath or the tears that came with it.

One blessing, Geralt remembered. He remembered what he had said on that mountain, how he had done what he did best and gone for the kill, driving the blades of his words into Jaskier’s weakest points. He had always been good at killing, so he killed the fragile, beautiful thing they had built together. He figured, easier to kill it himself than to watch it die beyond his control like everything else.

But it wasn’t easier. Living without the bard wasn’t easier. Turning to check on him to find he wasn’t there, the needling silence and biting cold of nights spent alone, coming back from a hunt to nothing and no one. None of it was easier.

Now, with Jaskier in his arms, Geralt didn’t want to go back to that. He wanted the inane chattering and the ire of jealous lords and the bright, clear, beautiful music of his voice. It was harder living without Jaskier. If he allowed the man to die here, it would be downright unbearable.

Geralt reached forward and cupped the man’s cheek, lifting his face so he could look into his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he said, pushing as much of his heart into his eyes and his voice as he could bear. He needed Jaskier to understand, to believe him. “For everything I said, everything I did. You were never a curse.” The bard blinked away tears as Ciri moved to his back and gripped his shoulders. “Life already gave me my one blessing,” he said, and Jaskier blinked in confusion. Geralt, despite the fear lacing his every nerve, smiled. “You. You and everything you’ve brought to my life: the djinn, the songs, the child surprise.” He glanced over at Ciri meaningfully before looking down into the other man’s face. “You are my one blessing.”

Unable to stop himself, he leaned forward and pressed his lips to Jaskier’s. The kiss was desperate, it tasted of blood and fear. Geralt knew his grip on Jaskier’s neck was bruising just as Jaskier’s grip on the front of his armor was leaving fingernail marks. Neither one cared, for that brief moment they were pushing back the pain and dread with all their strength and choosing to feel just each other.

When they pulled apart, Jaskier offered a watery, but genuine smile. Down the hall, the sound of the approaching guards grew dangerously close.

“If you’re not going to leave me, what are we going to do?” the bard asked. Geralt moved to stand up, reaching for his steel sword.

“Wait!” Ciri yelled, hope and determination creeping onto her face. “I have an idea.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier: Pretending like I'm not in pain when I'm actually in pain? I've been preparing for this role my whole life!  
> Ciri: Are you ok?  
> Jaskier: No!
> 
> Ciri just wants to know why her dads waited until the WORST POSSIBLE MOMENT to finally talk about their feelings. But hey, at least the idiots talked.  
> Leave a kudo and a comment, let me know what you think. We're rapidly approaching the end! Thank you for all your support.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally reunited, Geralt, Ciri, and Jaskier must live to see another day.

Geralt’s jaw was clenched tight enough to crack steel and the muscles in his neck looked ready to burst. His eyes flicked sharply between the door and the sounds of searching footsteps overhead. He growled, and moved as if he wanted to pace, but it wasn’t possible. The cellar they were hiding in was far too short and cramped.

“Hey,” Jaskier whispered, reaching out and taking Geralt’s hand. “She’ll be alright.”

The witcher sighed and looked around the tiny, dark room again, as if he might identify some new threat.

“She’s been gone too long,” he insisted stiffly.

“She’ll be back any moment, you’ll see, have some faith in the girl,” the bard reassured.

“She’s a child.”

“Yes, she is. A child who evaded Nilfgaard long enough to make it to you. I think she can handle some guards that a half-rate lord got on discount.”

Geralt stopped fidgeting to look long and hard at the bard. Jaskier was laid down with some makeshift bandages over his wounds. He was looking at the witcher weakly with a faint smile on his lips. Geralt crouched at his side.

“Where do you get your confidence?” he asked.

“Years of practice helped by the blood loss.”

Geralt shot him a sharp look.

“Kidding about the second part, I’ll be fine, don’t start worrying more than you already are you’ll combust”

The witcher sighed and laid the back of his hand on Jaskier’s forehead to check his temperature. He couldn’t help but notice the way the bard leaned into the touch, and once he was reassured the man didn’t have a fever the gesture turned tender. He brushed the hair away from Jaskier’s face and cupped his cheek.

“You really are just unbearably pretty you know?” the bard informed him softly. Geralt couldn’t help but smirk. “Which is very good considering you’re also an unbearable ass,” Jaskier finished and the witcher’s smirk turned into a grimace.

The sound of light footsteps approaching the door caught his attention in an instant and his hand was off of Jaskier and on his sword. Ciri appeared in the cellar door, breathing heavily with a grin pushing at her flushed cheeks.

“Did it! Roach is safe and hidden away.” she declared triumphantly.

“Excellent work my dear!” Jaskier piped up from behind Geralt.

“You brought company,” the witcher growled, unsheathing his sword part way.

“Put that thing away I mean to help you,” Sevinna said as she brushed past Ciri. She barely spared Geralt a glance on her way to Jaskier.

“It’s alright, we can trust her,” Cirilla said, laying a placating hand on Geralt’s elbow. He reluctantly stood down when he caught sight of the healer working over Jaskier’s wounds.

“Will he be alright?” he asked through gritted teeth.

“He has lost much blood, he will need to rest, someplace more suitable than this,” Sevinna replied.

“We leave as soon as the guards assume we have already escaped,” Geralt stated.

“Good, I will get him ready to travel.” Sevinna shoved a rag into Jaskier’s mouth and covered it with her hand. He had only a moment to look at her in confusion before she pulled the remains of the crossbow bolt from his leg. He thrashed and let out half a muted scream before composing himself into a trembling silence. Ciri moved to his side and laid a hand on his shoulder.

“I know you said not to, but I got it anyway,” she said, pulling his lute from the folds of her cloak. The pain that had been creasing his face melted away as he looked between her and the instrument tearfully. He pulled the cloth from his mouth so he could speak.

“Thank you, my sweet girl.” He gingerly took it and cradled it across his chest. With one hand he reached out and brushed the hair from Ciri’s face. “I will compose you a ballad the likes of which you have never heard,” he promised. “Of the princess who could not be held, by anyone or anything. With the strength of a dozen men and the stealth and swiftness of the wind, slipping through the fingers of her ene—”

“Jaskier,” Geralt interrupted and placed a finger to his lips. Jaskier frowned over at Ciri.

“He’s just jealous because he’s not my only muse anymore.”

Ciri giggled and settled to the floor. She burrowed her head into Jaskier’s shoulder and he stroked her hair while Sivenna worked. Slowly, the princess began to drift off, her head nodding and her blinking growing languid.

Sivenna completed her work and stepped back to look over the group.

“He is well enough to travel, though not quickly. I must return before my absence is noticed.” She made sharp eye contact with each person. “Leave at first light and do not stop until you are far from here. I wish you good luck, may you stay with each other for a long time to come.” With that, the healer turned on her heel and left them in the cellar to rest.

Ciri turned her head into Jaskier’s chest and closed her eyes. The last few days had been long and restless, she was asleep in moments.

Geralt sat a small ways away, preparing to meditate, when Jaskier made a little hissing noise to get his attention. The bard beckoned him to Ciri’s other side with a jerk of his head. After a moment of habitual reluctance, Geralt walked over and settled at the princess’s back. He laid an arm gently across her so his hand was also placed on Jaskier’s hip. The bard smiled at him, and he huffed a small laugh before closing his eyes, missing the small smile that graced Cirilla’s face. The three fell asleep quickly, despite the unforgiving floors of the cellar, their injuries, and the danger they were in. They found safety and comfort in each other.

* * *

Later, after enough time that the wounds were closed but still pink, Jaskier sang to Ciri over a campfire. Her eyes and smile glittered in the firelight as the bard spun one of Geralt’s stories ridiculously out of proportion.

Once the last notes faded into the woods, Ciri clapped and Geralt hummed.

“That’s not how it happened,” he said, lowering himself to sit across from the bard.

“Now now, sure it is.”

“You weren’t there when I fought the selkie maw.”

Jaskier gasped and looked over at Ciri, scandalized.

“Slander!”

“And they don’t sing”

“As I recall, this one did.”

“It didn’t.”

The two went back and forth and Ciri laughed quietly beside them. She enjoyed this part almost as much as the songs themselves. Geralt eventually walked over and leaned down to plant a long, deep kiss on Jaskier’s lips. It had the desired effect of shutting him up.

“Gross,” Cirilla commented, and the bard shook the star-struck look from his face to smile up at Geralt.

“Oh ho ho, a very nice try. You won’t quiet me that easy. I feel another song coming on!” He swung the lute around his shoulder and Ciri scooted up, eager for another story. Geralt rolled his eyes but sat down with his side pressed to Jaskier’s anyway.

“This one is about a dragon-hunting competition and a golden egg.”

“The dragon was gold, not the egg.”

“Shush you, I tell the story.”

Jaskier’s fingers took off deftly over his lute and Geralt settled against him to listen the beautiful, if wildly inaccurate song. The memory of that time on the mountain used to be painful, for both of them, but seeing Ciri’s joy and surprise at the twists and turns, and being together in all the ways they had dreamed of, it soothed the pain until it only served to remind them that they had survived to make it to here. The scar remained, but what was one more of those among the blessings that came with the healing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's it! This has been a joy to write, thank you to everyone who left kudos and comments, they've made me so happy.  
> I hope you all have enjoyed the piece, let me know your thoughts.  
> Thank you for reading! You're all blessings in my life.<3


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